The crisp April air was filled with the scent of cherry blossoms. Under the delicate pink canopy, 14-year-old Arima sat, hunched over his sketchbook, meticulously shading the whiskers of a white cat he'd seen that morning. Drawing was his escape, his silent language to express the parts of himself he'd never been able to share with anyone else. Art was a secret garden he tended alone, each page of his sketchbook a hidden corner of his heart.Transferring schools so often, due to his parents' constant relocations, had taught him to remain detached. They were busy people, rarely looking up from their screens or papers, indifferent to his passion for art or his dreams. His wish—no, his need—was that one day his artwork would find its way into a museum, a place where it could speak to others in ways he couldn't. But that was a quiet dream he held close, sharing it with no one.

"Is that a cat?" a soft, curious voice asked, pulling him abruptly from his thoughts.Arima looked up, startled.

Standing before him was a girl his age with a gentle smile, her eyes studying his drawing with genuine interest.

She had a lightness about her, something warm and open, as if she had wandered into his world without intending to intrude."Uh… yeah," he mumbled, a faint blush rising on his cheeks.

"It's beautiful. You really bring it to life." Her eyes met his, sincere and warm, and for a moment, Arima found himself at a loss for words.He managed a quiet "Thank you," and she nodded, as if understanding that words weren't his strong suit.

With a last lingering smile, she turned and walked away, leaving Arima with an unfamiliar sense of warmth—a subtle, inexplicable feeling that something in his life had quietly shifted.As he watched her walk off, he realized he hadn't asked her name.

But he knew, somehow, that he would see her again.